


The Jealousy of Heinous Doxy OR Why To Not Get Drunk Around Your Boyfriend’s Lover/Business Associate

by slimehag



Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, Mobsterswitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-04
Updated: 2011-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-24 07:48:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slimehag/pseuds/slimehag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Snooping Scout, and you have decided to get drunk tonight. You will later curse this decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Jealousy of Heinous Doxy OR Why To Not Get Drunk Around Your Boyfriend’s Lover/Business Associate

Your name is Snooping Scout, and you’ve had a hard day, and you really need a drink, and the place is close, and the music is good, so all the pieces seem to be arranged in your favor, really.

The lights are dim and the place smells of alcohol and smoke: typical. Come to think of it, if someone asked you right now, you couldn’t tell them the name of the joint. But you sit at the bar for hours, spilling your woes to the bartender as he serves you glass after heaven-sent glass of cheap whiskey. You aren’t there for class: you’re there to get drunk, and that’s precisely what you do.

\---

You leave very late at night- or, more accurately, very early in the morning- and your impaired judgment leads you down the alley behind the bar, instead of walking around the block. Later, you will think that maybe a few extra minutes of walking would have been a more-than-fair exchange.

You drunkenly stumble about half-way down the alley before taking a misstep and falling flat on to your face. You slur several curses at your feet and briefly contemplate simply sleeping there, but a pair of dainty hands is suddenly helping you up, and a vaguely familiar, sing-song voice is saying something, probably to you.

“Easy does it there, Mister,” says the voice, straining slightly as it pulls you up into a sitting position against the cold brick wall. Your eyes open lazily, and into focus comes the face of the singer from the bar. She gives you a short smile, flashing a perfect set of stunningly white teeth, before backing away slightly and looking you up and down, appraisingly.

“Well, that was quite the fall you just took, if I do say so myself,” she chuckles jovially, taking a small handkerchief and passing it to you. “That cute nose of yours just might be broken. Cryin’ shame,” she adds, adjusting her hat, knocked askew from the exertion of lifting you. You dab at your face, then draw away the cloth to find it stained with blood.

“I sure do hope you weren’t intendin’ to drive home. You’re in no fit state to operate yourself, let alone a car!” she laughs, drawing a small, gold tube of lipstick from the depths of her dress and running it across her already rose-red lips.

“Was gunna… gunna catch a cab,” you mutter, returning the handkerchief to your nose. She looks back up at you and chuckles, reaching over and taking the cloth away from you.

“Come on now, yer just rubbin’ the blood all over yerself,” she says as she places her other hand on the side of your head and begins wiping the blood from your face.

“So, what’s a nice, handsome man like yourself doin’ at a bar so late, without a dame on your arm?”

“Hard day,” you grumble, leaning your sore head into her warm hand. “Work.”

“Boy, don’t I know it,” she sighs, pressing almost too hard on your nose. “My boss’s been havin’ a real rough time, lately. Been in a… in a  right state.”

Her jaw is set and she is no longer smiling, her eyes no longer on you. She presses much harder than necessary on your broken nose, and you let out a hiss of pain. The singer mumbles an apology.

“Yes, he’s been right distracted,” she continues, “like there’s something on his mind, all the time.”

“‘r someone,” you slur.

In your state, you do not notice her eyes suddenly dart back on to yours, or the sudden twitch of the corner of her mouth.

“Or someone…” she echoes, hand frozen, still looking at you.

She returns the kerchief to her bag, looking at you all the while. She begins rolling the tube of lipstick in between her hands.

“You know, mister, maybe you can tell me what’s been gettin’ my boss so distracted lately,” she says, standing up and hovering over you.

“Why… Whyszat?”

“I think you just might know ‘im.”

“Wha’s ‘is name?”

“He’s called Peccant Scofflaw.”

Before you can register your surprise, her shoe connects with the side of your head, sending you into the trash bins standing next to you.

You scramble on to your back and attempt to back away from her, but your coordination is shot. You stumble; she laughs darkly.

She has one stiletto-heeled foot on either side of your stomach as she stands over you. You watch her throw her tube of lipstick up in the air and catch it over and over again as she stares daggers down at you; eyes you once thought were blue now glint lavender in the light of the moons. The single, dying streetlight at the end of the alley makes her silhouette all the more sinister.

“What is it with you lawful-types?” she spits at you venomously. “Every time somebody tries to make a livin’ in this town, you have to find some way to mess it all up.” She spits on your face. “You make me _sick_.”

“List’n, lady-” you begin, but she stomps on your chest, her sharp heel puncturing your skin. You arch up and grasp the spot, but she takes hold of your collar and bends down so that your face is an inch from hers. (Were this a different situation, you would quickly notice that she is wearing one of the lowest-cut dresses you’ve ever seen.)

“Now you listen to me, _Mister Scout,_ ” she says, and her voice is low and deadly- the sliver of a snake through grass. “My name is _Doxy_ , and when filth like you wanna talk t’me, you are gonna call me Miss, is that _perfectly clear to you?_ ”

You are terrified by the intensity with which she is staring at you, so you remain silent.

“ _Good._ ”

She flings you back on to the ground, hard. You are pretty sure a concussion has just been added to the list of tonight.

“Now, in my experience,” she says, still tossing around her lipstick, “when you got somethin’ on your mind, somethin that just won’t get out… Well, Mister Scout, you just can’t put in one-hundred-percent, no matter how hard you try.”

Doxy lifts her leg and puts one foot on your chest. She presses down just where she stomped earlier, digging deeper into the wound with her heel.

“Mister Scout, I suppose you could say it’s a bit like workin’ with just one arm.”

She catches her lipstick one final time. The sound of the metal against her palm rings out in the silence with grim finality.

“Scofflaw is a good man, Mister Scout. He’s gotten us through some tough times, and he’s made things better when times are already good. But I won’t have my man workin’ like he’s only got one arm.”

Your eyes move to the chainsaw she holds in her hands. You gulp.

“And I know that I can talk to you as long as I want, but no amount of talkin’ is gonna get my message through that big head of yours, is it?”

She pulls the cord on the chainsaw. The fumes float over her face, obscuring it temporarily.

“Mister Scout, I think I’m gonna show you what it’s like workin’ with just one arm.”

There is a whirr, the sickening sound of metal blades cutting furiously through flesh and bone; you hear her crazed laugh in a moment before it is blocked out by your own screams.  But you sense these things only briefly before everything becomes black.


End file.
